Noah Czerny and Decaying: The (After)Life of a Teenage Murder Victim
by strawberrykeily
Summary: Richard Gansey the Third might not be able to save his best dead friend, Noah Czerny, no matter how hard he tries. But, perhaps, there is someone who can do what Gansey and his friends cannot, someone you wouldn't expect. The story of Noah's decay, and perhaps, revitalization. (cross-posted from ao3. individual parts made into chapters.)
1. Of Good Days and Bad

Noah Czerny doesn't remember how he died.

Well, he does, actually: he was beaten to death by his friend Barrington Whelk in what he now knows as Cabeswater, a mystical forest where mothers disappear and time's even more circular than usual. He knows that, logically, he got his face bashed in with his skateboard, of all things. Noah knows; Noah remembers.

But that doesn't mean he _remembers._

He doesn't remember the smash of skateboard against his skull. He doesn't remember Whelk standing over him, and then hitting him again, because one hit with a skateboard wouldn't kill a toddler; Noah had been 17 and as wild with it as was feasible. He doesn't know how many times Whelk hit him, and he doesn't know how long it actually took him to die.

It probably felt longer than it was. Dying is like that.

Noah's dying again, and he knows deep in his ghostly bone marrow that _nothing_-not Glendower or Cabeswater or Gansey's sheer will power-is going to bring him back this time. Nothing. It will all be over. He's flattered that Gansey wants to save him; it makes him feel as warm as a ghost ever could, blossoming in his chest and low in his belly.

The apartment door crashes open. _Speaking of Gansey_.

He's alone. No Ronan on his heels, sharp where Gansey is soft; no Adam, sepia-toned and dusty; and no Blue, with her spiky hair and cut-up shirts. Just Gansey, at once old and impossibly young, looking exhausted and beautiful in his rumpled Aglionby sweater. He walks right by the couch Noah's spread out on, drops his bag, and flops on his bed with a grace that shouldn't be possible, with how long he's been awake. (54 hours, sleep kept from him by thoughts of Blue and anxiety about the search for Glendower and Roger Mallory's snores and the nagging feeling that time's running out. Probably, anyway. Noah's a ghost, not a_ mind reader_.)

He doesn't know Noah's here, which is fine. Sometimes, Noah doesn't know either

Gansey lays there, and not a single muscle twitches, not even when Noah makes one side of the mattress dip when he climbs up onto the bed beside him. In the afternoon sunlight-a welcomed break from the rain that's been pounding on Monmouth's roof for the past eight days-Gansey's hair looks as soft as silk and is the color of gold. His skin is clear and touchable. He's on his back, so Noah can see how his long lashes brush his cheeks

Gansey is a priceless painting, and Noah is his unworthy viewer.

Gansey says, "Hello, Noah."

"You shouldn't sleep with your shoes on," says Noah, watching him. Gansey smiles, showing a hint of his perfect teeth, but doesn't move to take his shoes off. His chest rises and falls with every breath he takes; in through his nose, out through his pleasant mouth. He's so alive, it's hard to look at him. He's beautiful, even with those dark rings around his eyes.

Noah slides off the bed; it's a good day, and he hasn't spontaneously disappeared yet, not even once, so when the bed creaks when he gets off, it's strangely nice to hear. The good days have drastically decreased in number, recently, even with the ley line thrumming awake beneath his feet.

Noah takes off Gansey's shoes and climbs back onto the bed. As he lays down, Gansey opens his eyes and looks at him. Not for the first time, he wonders what Gansey sees. An echo of a boy? A friend, a skeleton? Something, or someone?

Since this is Gansey, and not someone more critical, like Adam, that thought doesn't stick around for all that long.

"How do you feel?" asks Gansey, voice soft. It's a new voice, one Noah hasn't heard before; it's something that rarely happens, now, since Noah is everywhere and nowhere at once. He sees more than people mean for him to, hears more than he should - and yet, he's never heard Gansey speak like that. Not even with Blue, who Gansey is undoubtedly a little more in love with than he is with everyone else. (The feeling is mutual, though Blue ignores it and Gansey is oblivious to it. Mostly, anyway.)

"I don't know," Noah says. "Let me think for a minute." So he and Gansey lay there while Noah considers it; he hasn't actually thought about his feelings in a while. He's been a bit preoccupied. After a while, he says, "I feel tired." And it's true. He does.

Gansey lets out a huff of a laugh. "Me too."

"Then sleep," says Noah, watching his fancy face. Obligingly, Gansey closes his eyes. Something in Noah's chest swells with the knowledge that Gansey trusts him enough to lay there beside him, prone, with his eyes closed. Noah closes his eyes too.

For a long time, they lay there; eventually, Gansey actually does fall asleep, so it's only Noah who's pretending. That's alright, though. Maybe it will keep Gansey from falling asleep in his murderous Latin teacher's class.

(Gansey would never fall asleep in class. It's an interesting thought, though.)

Eventually, a car pulls up, gravel crunching under its wheels. A door slams shut, and then a few moments later, another one does. The Dog barks.

Roger Malory is back to Monmouth Manufacturing.

Roger Malory is interesting, for lack of a better word. Noah's never met a British man before meeting Roger Malory, and he certainly hadn't imagined him to look like a turtle; Roger Malory, if he resembles anything that isn't exactly what you'd expect the oldest person alive to look like, resembles a turtle. Noah likes that, surprisingly. Noah doesn't like the way his snoring keeps Gansey and Ronan awake, his multiple late-night piss breaks, or the way he's currently occupying Noah's room. It's alright, though - no one's perfect.

Both Malory (he is not going to call the man Roger; not even Gansey does) and the Dog can see him, so when Noah opens the door, he gets a smile and to move out of the way so Malory and the Dog can come in instead of getting walked straight through like he isn't there.

This is one reason he likes Roger Malory.

At the sight of Gansey asleep on top of the covers of his unmade bed, Malory smiles, presses a finger to his lips when he looks at the Dog, and goes straight into Noah's room.

This is another reason why Noah likes Roger Malory.

He's pretty sure the man knows that he's dead. If he does, as Noah thinks, he doesn't mention it or even act as though Noah is in fact a dead person. It's a kindness Noah greatly appreciates, even if he doesn't fully understand the reason for it.

* * *

It's a bad day. And, as has become a pattern, Blue is around for it.

Noah, despite adoring Blue beyond all reason, wishes she wasn't. For one thing, she makes him stronger; Blue is a natural oasis of energy for someone like Noah, and when Noah's more ghost than himself, that's a bad thing. A very bad thing. Especially when you're in a classroom filled with normal teenagers and one very bewildered math teacher

Noah had just been following Blue around her day; he's never actually been in Mountain View High past the counselor's office. It's exactly what you'd expect, really, from a poor American public school in the South. No one can see him when he trails Blue down the halls, but they unconsciously make room for him; in the cafeteria, for the few minutes he was able to keep from disappearing, next to Blue's locker, an empty desk beside Blue's. He's made it through the whole school day, almost, without one of his… Episodes. He hasn't even re-enacted his death. (It's been brought to his attention that this is something he does. Noah doesn't like thinking about it.)

Math is Blue's last class and has always been Noah's least favorite, so he wasn't in all that good a mood when they walked in. Still, he'd tried, for Blue. (She's a good motivator.) He isn't sure what caused it, and when it's over and he's more _Noah_ than he is right now, he probably won't think about it. All he knows is that one minute Blue's teacher is writing something on the whiteboard, sweating through his dingy button-up, and Blue's taking notes and someone throws a wad of paper into her hair and-

And then there's screaming, and papers are flying into the air and desks are getting knocked over by kids too quick to get out of their seats, and Blue's staring at him, sad but not disappointed-looking. Everyone else is staring at her, the psychic's daughter; some of the gazes are accusatory.

Even though he's barely Noah right now, Noah feels bad about possibly getting her in trouble.

"Noah," she says, and her voice is heartbreaking. And then the energy is gone, and Noah is paper-thin and see-through. Blue has cut him off.

"I'm sorry." He says. She nods, and even though she's in a dress that makes her look a little like a lampshade, Blue seems as sensible and grounded as she truly is. Noah smiles at her, tired and weak. She smiles back but makes no move to touch him

"I know you are," Blue replies. She doesn't say it's okay, which is something Noah likes about her. Blue doesn't deal in falsehoods.

Then, Noah is gone

* * *

Lately, Noah's taken to hanging around his grave. It's a nice grave, as far as those things go. It always has flowers. His headstone is pretty average, though it's not cheap looking. It just has his name, date of birth, date of death, and a simple sentence: _Here lies Noah Czerny, loving brother, son, and friend._ He distinctly remembered having a morbid conversation with his sister, Adele, about wanting a song quote on his headstone.

He can't blame them for not using that lyric for his headstone, even though he wishes they had.

Noah sits by his grave and watches, whenever he's here; Henrietta is small, so there's very little foot traffic, but people do come by. Goth teenagers, all posturing for one another; old men and women, come to lay flowers at their lost spouse's grave; and Adele Czerny, every Sunday after church.

Today, she's wearing a lovely yellow dress and a white cardigan. Her eyeshadow is glittery, her lipstick a pretty shade of pink. Out of his two sisters, Adele had been the one he was closest to during his life. They look alike; the same thin face and wide orphan's eyes and light hair. She has a pretty bouquet of flowers clutched in her right hand. Noah doesn't know what kind, but they're pink and blue and yellow. Adele isn't a church person-church wasn't something the Czernys ever did, when Noah was alive-so she's probably dressed up just because she wants to be. Adele did things like that, when she was little, wearing pretty dresses and plastic Cinderella heels to Kindergarten or putting on Mom's red lipstick and curling her blonde hair before going out to ride her bike

_I'm right here, I'm here_.

The worst thing about being dead is that his loved ones can't see him. Adele walks right through him when he moves in front of her; even if this was one of the days where he was more solid, even if they were right above the ley line, Adele wouldn't be able to see him. Somehow, that's the worst part about being dead and dying again; even though he's _here, right now, _Adele can't see him because she doesn't have a psychic bone in her body. Adele is apart of the vast majority of the living that get to rest securely in ignorance; for them, ghosts aren't real. For Adele, Noah is dead, even when he's rubbing her back with his too-cold hand, standing beside her in front of his grave.

_I'm sorry, Adele,_ Noah thinks. _I'm sorry._

When Adele leaves, maybe a few minutes after getting there, maybe a few hours, she doesn't look like she's been crying. She looks as beautiful and fragile as she had when she came. Noah wishes desperately to follow her, to hold her hand and take her for rides in his car with the top down and some Fall Out Boy song blaring from the radio, just like he used to.

It's been a bad day, so Noah doesn't feel all that sad when he fades away.

* * *

Noah doesn't remember the feeling of his cheekbone caving in. He doesn't remember the pain, the betrayal he must've felt; he doesn't remember whether or not his last breaths were ragged and bloody. He thinks they must've been.

What Noah remembers about his death centers around Barrington Whelk, and he usually only takes the time to remember it on his worst days. He remembers the look in his eyes when he turned to look at him; Whelk's childlike face had been twisted, his eyes glinting, maybe even with tears. He remembers how there'd been no hesitation in that first swing; he hadn't even had time to block the hit. Noah remembers the ground beneath his hands, and the feel of Whelk's corduroys when he grabbed at his legs in a vain attempt to make him fall, to make him _stop, Whelk, please._

He remembers Whelk's fingers in his hair, right before he died, like an apology.

Well. Noah doesn't accept.


	2. Courage is Crucial

Noah Czerny, a murder victim who can't remember enough of his death to tell the tale, is a lot of things. He's a boy; he's a ghost. He's a coward; he's a champ. Noah's a skeleton; Noah's flesh and bone. He's nervous and a little too shy; he's the kind of boy who'd kiss someone and admit that if he was alive, he'd want to date her. Noah is a decaying corpse underneath the summer sun, bloated and laying in his own waste.

He's a lot of things, really. It's complicated.

_Is this how Gansey feels?_

He's different from Gansey, though. Because while Gansey is too many things to count, a layered sort of creature that changes depending on the angle you're looking at him, Gansey isn't dead. He's died before-that's another thing they have in common-but he came back to life.

Gansey conquered death. Noah's forever ruled by it.

The thing is, Noah doesn't _want_ to decay. He wants to stay, and he wants to see Blue and Gansey get married someday because he knows it will happen, he knows it. He wants to see Ronan _heal_, if only just a little bit; he wants to pretend to drink alcohol at a party with him, and chew spoons while Adam eats dinner in his shithole apartment. What Noah wants is to live. How do the dead come back to life? Noah knows the answer to that question. He just doesn't like to think about it.

* * *

Noah is good at finding things. He's not sure if he was when he was alive-all of that's fading, now, fading right along with the rest of him-but he's good at it now. Adam can't find his history textbook? You left it at Monmouth, Adam, here, take it. It's 1 am and Gansey can't find his glasses? Noah will whisper in his ear that they're in the top drawer of his desk, next to his epi-pen, just to see him jump. Ronan's decided to go gallivanting off into the night, possibly drunk off his ass? Check the church.

Noah doesn't like to go looking for Ronan.

It's not that he doesn't care about Ronan. Ronan's his best friend. It's just that Ronan… Well.

Whenever he sees Ronan sleeping, he's afraid that when he wakes up, he's going to be covered in his own blood again. Or maybe he'll bring another one of those night terrors with him. Noah doesn't know. So he doesn't go looking for Ronan anymore. Before the others found out about Ronan and his dreams, he knows the reason why Gansey thought Noah wasn't going to look for him anymore.

Noah had found Ronan after his "suicide attempt," laying in his own blood. And since Noah's a coward, he's excused from Ronan-wrangling duty. He wonders, now that the whole Greywaren thing is out in the open among them, if it's occurred to Gansey that Noah had already known about it. If it has, Gansey hasn't said anything about it.

Noah appreciates that. He doesn't want to tell Gansey that it wasn't Noah's secret to tell.

The weird part about all of it-how quick he can find Ronan, how scared seeing Ronan sleep makes him-is that a lot of the time, he already knows where Ronan is. He just lets Gansey find him for himself. It's cruel, he knows, but some part of him has his hand clapped over his mouth so he can't tell, because in all honesty, he _likes_ seeing Ronan dream. Ronan looks the calmest, the most human when he's dreaming; it's different from when his face scrunches up with a nightmare, or when he's bringing something out from the forest in his mind, and every inch of him is tense. His brow goes smooth, and the sharp line of his mouth is a little fuzzy around the edges. It goes from a butcher knife to one of those plastic knives that exist at backyard barbeques and family reunions no one actually wants to go to. Not dull-if you fell on it wrong, that mouth could definitely still slice you up-but safer.

Ronan is at his most beautiful when he's dreaming.

So sometimes, only _sometimes_, when he knows Ronan's not in danger-from himself or otherwise-he'll sit near Ronan, wherever he's sleeping, whether in a pew at the church or under the bridge near Adam's house or on the hood of the BMW, and he'll watch him. He'll draw patterns on the back of one of his hands, and watch his lips turn up a little at the corners. And Noah will smile, and huff a sigh, because someone like this, who's magic even when he's not doing magic, shouldn't be real.

That is what Noah's doing, right now.

Ronan had trudged down to the church an hour ago after a nightmare that had left him paler than usual and tight around the eyes. He might've known that Noah was following him, but he didn't say anything; he just walked right out of Monmouth Manufacturing without a glance at Gansey, who had seen him going but chose to say nothing about it. (It had been a good idea. Ronan had been more volatile than usual, and one worried look from Gansey, in Noah's opinion, probably would've set Ronan off.)

Chainsaw had joined Ronan outside, landing quietly on his shoulder, the fluttering of her feathers the only sound in the Henrietta night. Noah had followed, soundless behind them

Currently, Chainsaw is on Noah's shoulder and permitting herself to be petted. She's such a good bird, really, just another one of the reasons Ronan is good: someone who made a bird as loyal as Chainsaw and a brother as pure and kind as Matthew Lynch is can't be bad. Noah likes to remind himself of this when Ronan's being foul and hot-blooded and frankly, a little frightening.

(Barrington Whelk had been like that, before his father got busted and put in jail. After that, Whelk had been less foul, but a whole hell of a lot more frightening. But that doesn't really matter.)

Ronan, as stated, is sleeping, lying on his back in the pew. His hands are crossed over his chest, one of his long legs draped haphazardly off the seat. For once, Ronan isn't wearing jeans, he's in baggy gray sweatpants with holes in the crotch. He is, however, in a muscle tee, which is Ronan-typical, and he still has those leather bands on. He has goosebumps on his bare arms. If he could, Noah would take off his Aglionby sweater and cover him with it like a very small, rumpled blanket. But he can't. It's fine, though; the sweater would barely cover Ronan, after all.

His chest rises and falls in a slow, even rhythm. If Noah focuses, he can feel Ronan's heartbeat.

(If Noah focuses, he can feel the dip in the bed as Gansey crawls into it to try to get some sleep.)

Ronan opens his eyes suddenly, and his eyes meet Noah's. _Be a champ,_ Noah thinks. He doesn't want to fade away, not right now, but he can feel anxiety bubbling where his stomach should be._ Be a champ,_ he thinks ferociously._ It's not like he can actually hurt you._ It's not like Ronan would try, anyway.

They stare at each other, Ronan's eyes very blue in the dark of the church. Ronan doesn't move, even after he's probably able to. (Noah knows about how after he wakes up, he can't move for a minute. He's seen it, quite a few times.) Finally, when Chainsaw caws and flutters down to sit on Ronan's chest, Noah asks, "Was it a good dream?"

Ronan smiles, but he's looking at Chainsaw now. Noah thinks he's not too good at maintaining eye contact when it's eye contact without venom. He lifts a hand and strokes the soft, short feathers at Chainsaw's neck. She lets him. "Yeah, man. It was."

"You didn't bring anything out," Noah says, eyes on Ronan's fingers.

Ronan's gaze snaps to him, and Noah can't do anything but meet it. He grins, and it's heartbreaking. Ronan holds up his left hand, the one that's still in a fist at his side. "Didn't I?" He opens his palm, and there's a set of keys. Ronan's eyes glint with something like the look he'd get when he raced the other dreamer on the streets. _Shit_, Noah thinks.

Noah smiles, even though his stomach is in a knot. Tonight, he's a _champ_, damn it.

When they pull up in the BMW to the rows and rows of white Mitsubishis, well, Noah isn't at all surprised. "Ronan," he says, and he's trying at that thing Gansey does; he's got his shoulders back and his head held high and is looking sideways at Ronan's handsome face. (The way his hands are gripping the edges of his seats is irrelevant.)

"Noah," Ronan replies, only a little heat behind it.

"_Kerah,_" Chainsaw says, pressing her beak against Ronan's neck. Noah thinks she just wants to be included. Once he's parked, Ronan pets the feathers of her neck, gently. She nips at his fingers. Noah sighs, something he's been doing a lot lately. Chainsaw looks at him with her right eye.

With that, they get out of the car

"Toss me the keys," Noah says, holding out a hand. Ronan gives him a look as he locks up the BMW that says _No fucking way, man_.

What Ronan says out loud is "Piss up a rope."

"How do you know what Kavinsky's keys were like?" Noah asks, even though he already knows. Ronan ignores him and walks to one of the cars; the thing that separates this one from the rest is that the graphic on the side is of a gun instead of a knife. He unlocks it, gets in, and starts it; in the time all that took Noah has gotten in on the passenger side, buckled himself into the seat, and uneasily settled against the vinyl of the seat. Ronan turns on the radio: thumping bass and some singer that's probably popular in Europe singing something Slavic. On the dash, there are the trace remnants of powder.

"Was he a coke head?" Noah asks as Ronan pulls out. He has to yell over the music to be heard.

"Don't ask questions you already know the answer to," says Ronan. Chainsaw caws her agreement. For some reason, neither of them have to be all that much louder to be heard; they're like twin sharp knives, capable of conscious thought

"That's not an answer," says Noah, stalling. Chainsaw gives him a look that says _I know what you're doing, Ghost Boy._

Ronan revs the engine: it's low and it's savage, and he quite clearly is a little intoxicated by it. His eyes are practically glowing, a poisonous, pretty blue. If it wasn't for all the times he's seen Ronan sleep, Noah would think that this Ronan is the most beautiful of all.

Really, this one is just the most intoxicating. It's understandable to get the two mixed up, though.

Chainsaw burrows into Ronan's neck, and like that they speed off into the night.

When they get back to Monmouth in the BMW, it's almost dawn, and Noah's fading with every step he takes. It's alright. It had been a good night. Chainsaw seems to sense it; she flies off his shoulder and into the night, to do whatever dream birds do when they're tired of ghost boys and insolent dreamers.

It's possible she just doesn't want to fall to the ground when Noah's gone. Or that she's hungry. (What's it like to be hungry, again?)

Gansey is asleep at his desk when they get into the apartment. He must've been unable to sleep, and tried to do his homework. Adam, Noah thinks, would be proud of him. Noah's just sad that Gansey won't take sleeping pills or something, just so he'd get some _sleep. _Ronan presses a finger to his lips, that universal signal to be quiet._ Don't wake Gansey,_ it says.

The look Noah gives him says_ don't be stupid._

Instead of heading straight to his room, Ronan strides over to the desk. Gansey, illuminated by the lamp and the near-dawn sunlight, is slumped over and drooling all over his math work. His glasses are crooked on his face. His bare torso looks pale where the yellow light of the lamp doesn't reach it, with only the grey light from the windows touching his skin. Right now, his hair looks wheat-brown and as soft as it usually does. (That is to say, it looks very soft. If Noah were more solid, or alive, he'd touch it.)

Noah follows him over and stands beside Ronan. He's barely there. Slowly, as if afraid that the slightest sound will wake his sleeping king, Ronan reaches out and takes off Gansey's glasses. He folds them up and sets them by his right hand. It's still holding a mechanical pencil. He pushes the hair back from Gansey's sleeping face.

"Don't tell anyone," he says after a minute, still looking at Gansey. It hits Noah then that Ronan would do absolutely anything for Gansey

"I'm dead," Noah says, from somewhere that isn't beside Ronan. "Not stupid."

* * *

Adele Czerny is many things; fragile, soft and spoiled, a girl who's never had to worry about where her next meal is coming from. She's untouchable and unknowable - she's approachable and transparent. She's beautiful, in the abstract; her beauty comes from all that old money supporting her. She likes dresses and pink lipstick and curling her blonde hair.

These are all things that could be seen from very far away and are apparent to anyone who crosses her path.

Adele Czerny has a secret collection of band tee shirts, black eyeliner, and ripped up skinny jeans. Her favorite band is the same as her dead brother's, and the main reason for that is nostalgia than anything else. She has Fall Out Boy and Green Day posters on her walls, a Blink-182 poster on the inside of her closet door. When possible, Adele prefers to write in red ink, because it makes her feel closer to said dead brother.

These are things her extended family and casual friends know.

Adele goes to things like Warped Tour in big sunglasses and Noah's leather jacket, even though it makes her sweat bullets. Adele has brightly colored extensions she wears when she's nowhere anyone who knows her casually will be; places her elitist uncles wouldn't be caught dead in. (Sometimes Adele forgets that she's _also_ elitist, and she revels in going to those places and taking Instagram photos of her time there during those forgetful moments of hers.) Adele paints her nails black, and when she's got a family dinner or a photoshoot or something else that reminds her that she's a rich white girl from the suburbs, she gives herself a manicure and comes out on the other side with French nails. She buys her favorite dresses in thrift stores and then tailors them to her body herself with her second-hand sewing machine.

These things, only her immediate family and most trusted friends know.

What no one but Adele knows is that she believes in the supernatural, and has been researching everything to do with ghosts and psychics ever since that girl came up to her and her family at Noah's funeral. The journal she keeps on these things looks like what she does on the inside; utilitarian, black leather cover, her name on the inside, and then pretty, swirling letters in her favorite, chaotic red.

It's almost full, even though she's only had it since the spring and the fact that the journal has quite a lot of pages. Adele thinks she's dedicated. (It is possible that she's obsessed.)

Now, after maybe six months of research, Adele is completely certain that her dead brother remains on this earth as a ghost, and that he's been watching her. It would be a good explanation for the goosebumps she gets every time she goes to put flowers on Noah's grave, in any case.

If she were to tell her family or her friends, they'd say she needs to get a hobby. That she needs to go for a hike out in the woods or go on a nature retreat where she doesn't talk for a week. So Adele doesn't tell anyone, and she keeps her journal in the lockbox she keeps Noah's cologne in. (It's possibly the worst cologne she's ever smelled, and why he wore it still escapes her. Still, it brings a smile to her face when she smells it on that old leather jacket.)

When Adele schedules a reading at 300 Fox Way-she heard about it from a friend of a friend of a friend who works at one of the little sandwich shops in Henrietta, the one that boasts its tuna fish-her mother finds out immediately, as Adele had known she would. Adele's mother is like that.

"You can't be _serious_," she says, one thin blonde eyebrow arched.

Adele smiles at her and tosses her curled hair over her shoulder. "I am."

"You know that psychics aren't a _thing_, right, sweetie?" The way she says it is so kind, so concerned, that Adele feels a swell of love for her mother. Sometimes she forgets about just how much she loves her. "They're just con artists."

"I know," Adele says, and it's a good lie; it sounds like she totally agrees with her mother on this. It couldn't be further from the truth. "I'm going for the experience, anyway. With Lauren and Tina. You remember Tina?" Even though Adele does not know a Tina, her Mom nods as if she can remember the name _Tina _from some conversation months or weeks earlier. It's possible she thinks that Adele does in fact have a friend named Tina.

"Ah, okay. In that case." She leans across the counter, her wine-colored lips spread in a little smile. "You girls have fun. Learn the future, get your palms read, get high off incense."

Adele laughs with her mother at that, even though she's pretty sure you can't get high off incense.

The psychic's daughter opens the door at 300 Fox Way and stares at her like she's seeing a ghost. Adele isn't as surprised as she wishes she was. "Hello," she says pleasantly, looking down at her. "I'm here for a reading? Adele Czerny, at 2 o'clock?" When the girl doesn't respond, Adele adds, "With Persephone and Calla? And the girl I talked to on the phone?"

This catches the girl's attention. "Orla's doing a reading with Persephone and Calla?" Her voice is curious, surprised, but not disbelieving.

"She said something about things working better in threes." She says. The girl nods like that makes sense, and Adele watches the way her fledgling ponytail bounces. The girl is rather short, so Adele, who's only about average in height, can see all the various clips she's unevenly clipped into her hair. She's wearing a shirt with feathers sewn into the collar and ripped up leggings.

For some reason, Adele feels under-dressed

The girl looks over her shoulder into the bowels on her house, and then back at Adele. Her eyes are guarded, but not unkind. "Calla and Orla should only be a minute. Come on inside." So Adele follows the psychic's daughter into 300 Fox Way and into a room with a signed picture of Steve Martin. She gets sat down in a slightly lumpy chair before the girl turns to her, eyes a little wide. "Sorry, I almost forgot. I'm Blue Sargent."

"We've met," Adele says with a nod, because Blue Sargent, she somehow knows, isn't going to say it herself.

"Yes," Blue says after a moment. "Look, about the funeral-"

"Don't," Adele says, cutting her off. Blue looks at her as if stunned that Adele has the courage to do such a thing to someone as fierce as Blue. "Don't apologize. Please." Both women are quiet for a moment, studying each other. She finds herself quite liking the psychic's daughter, even though she almost desperately doesn't want to.

Blue's eyes are only a little less guarded when she speaks again. "I'm going to go get Persephone and the others. Be right back." Adele nods, and like a flash, Blue is gone. Adele is alone in this room that serves more purposes than any single room should have to. _This is what it's like, not to have all the money in the world_.

Something touches Adele's shoulder, and she knows, even as she turns to look, that nothing is there.

Nothing ever is.

Blue is, as she said, right back, and three women follow her; a girl in paisley bell-bottoms and platform heels that make her miles-long legs look even longer, a woman with a cloud of cotton-candy hair even lighter than Noah's had been, and a prowling woman with plum-colored lipstick and a very nice figure.

Introductions are made; Orla is the girl in the bell-bottoms, the one she had talked to on the telephone. She's beautiful, even with her nose. Adele immediately likes her. The woman with the cotton-candy hair, in a very tiny voice, introduces herself as Persephone, and that leaves the prowling woman as Calla

Adele extends her hand with a smile, but Calla doesn't shake it. Blue gives her a look that says_ it's nothing personal_, but it definitely feels personal. That might have more to do with Calla's general intimidating nature than with Adele's neglected hand, though.

After the reading, Adele's mother calls her. "So," she says, cheery and a little tinny over the phone, "How'd it go?"

Adele, who's parked her car at the fairgrounds and spent the last hour crying, doesn't respond for a long moment. She can feel her mother getting more nervous with every passing second. "Well," she says finally, wiping her cheeks to catch the lingering tears, "It was okay. Different from what I expected." It was more than that, but Mrs. Czerny, a woman with one hundred and one things to do in the next hour, doesn't need to know that.

"Oh, really?" She asks, giving a little laugh. "How was it on your wallet?"

In Adele's opinion, under-priced. "Very reasonable, actually."

"What all did they do?"

Adele smiles, but it's bittersweet. "A whole hell of a lot, Mom. It was actually a good experience."

"You think so?" Mrs. Czerny's laugh speaks volumes of how little she believes her daughter. "Maybe I should make an appointment!"

Adele shakes her head, and a curl falls into her face. Brushing it away, she says, "Nah, Mom. They'd smell you coming from light-years away."

"You're using light-years in the wrong context." Mrs. Czerny says, and whether or not she's right, Adele has no clue.

She laughs. "Sure I am. Talk to you later?"

Mrs. Czerny's smile can be heard over the phone. "Sure, honey. Love you."

"Love you too. Bye." Adele says this to the dial tone because her mother's already hung up. She tosses her phone into the passenger seat and closes her eyes. She feels more alive right now than she has since Noah disappeared.

The reading had been long, which had surprised her. They'd read her cards, Persephone had translated a dream or two, Orla had read her palms even though that, apparently, wasn't something she normally did and_ this is special, just for you, because I really like that top you're wearing._ Calla hadn't done anything specific during the actual reading. Blue Sargent had been there for it all, watching her - no, actually, that was wrong. Blue Sargent had been watching the wall behind her, which was just a normal wall with tacky wallpaper.

After the reading was over and Adele had paid the completely reasonable fee, she'd been halfway out the door when Calla grabbed her arm. Her long nails had pinched at her skin. "Yes?" Adele had asked, confused, and not at all faking it.

Calla's eyes weren't as hard as she'd come to expect them to be, in the hour and a half she'd known the woman. "You're right," she'd growled, because that seemed to be the only way the woman knew how to speak, in growls and roars and snarls. Then she let Adele go and turned heel to go back inside the depths of 300 Fox Way, and it was just Blue and Adele.

Adele looked at Blue, who looked heartbroken and was hiding it poorly. Instead of speaking, Adele had raised an eyebrow.

Blue's gaze was the only answer she needed, really, now that she's thinking about it.

After that Adele had gotten in her car and driven all the way up here, where that coke head had his final shebang, and sobbed her heart out.

Adele turns the key and listens to the engine roar to life. "Noah," she says, because she knows, now, she _knows_. She knows he can hear her. "I'm going to bring you back to life. Soon. I swear it." Adele turns the radio to her favorite station, cranks the volume up as high as she possibly can, and races off onto the highway.

* * *

Noah does, in fact, hear her, even though he's rifling through Gansey's desk and trying to avoid his emotions. He knows that his sister is serious. Since he's avoiding his emotions, he chooses not to think about how that makes him feel.

From the couch, Roger Malory and the Dog are watching him. Malory is petting the animal. They look ridiculous. Malory's hair looks like clouds, if clouds had a big bald spot and a comb-over. "Young man," Malory says. It's the first time he's ever spoken to him. Noah does not respond, but he looks at him. Waits for him to continue./

Malory does not continue. He looks at Noah, and Noah looks back. Does Malory know that Noah is dead? They're silent, the both of them. The Dog is snoring. The look Malory is giving him says more than words ever.

Noah's courage fails him, not for the first time. He fades away while Malory watches.


	3. Conversations and Beginnings

Calla isn't sure what to make of Noah Czerny, and she doesn't like that. She, like everyone else at 300 Fox Way, can see him, talking outside with Blue or getting out of Gansey's car or snickering with Ronan about something in that BMW in the parking lot of the grocery store. Most recently, she's seen Noah Czerny stand behind his sister during her reading and stare at her like a kicked, very sad puppy, and then walk her to the door.

The girl could not see him. Calla hadn't needed to touch her, though, to know that Adele Czerny had known her brother was there.

"Maybe we should help her," Orla says, bringing Calla out of her brooding; she's upside down in the corner of the room they do their readings in, doing aerial yoga. She's forsaken the tank top she usually wears when she does this, so she's left in a bra the same shade as Orla's nails - a poisonous purple.

"How?" Calla's not going to argue, because she agrees that Adele needs help - with what, though, she and Orla might disagree with. "How do you suggest we help her?"

Orla's _clearly _thought about this quite a lot because when Calla spins enough to look at her, she's watching her with an intensity that she didn't know Orla had in her. "Well, for one thing, we keep her from trying to resurrect him herself." An obvious statement, but Calla agrees with it. "Then," Orla says, after having waited a solid minute to give Calla time to respond, "we figure out how to resurrect the dead."

Yes, Orla and Calla were going to disagree on _that_ part. "_Or_ we get her _not_ to resurrect the dead boy." Even as she says that Calla has a feeling that will be a feat not even she can accomplish. It's not one she likes. "The boy's dead, and he's decaying. There's no saving him." Calla's voice is a snarl, but that's only because it always is.

"No saving him?" Calla can't see Orla's face, but it probably looks like the girl just took a big bite out of a lemon. "Of course we can save him!"

"With _what?_"  
"Cabeswater," Orla says. Calla untangles herself from the fabric that was holding her up and stands. "It's where he died, isn't it?"

"Probably." Noah and his friend had been trying to perform the same ritual Adam had - instead of hands and eyes, Noah's friend had offered up Noah's life for the sacrifice. It hadn't worked, but according to Noah, it almost had

"Then he has an attachment to it." Orla looks triumphant, holding her mug with both hands and looking at Calla smugly.

"That doesn't mean it likes him the way it likes the Snake.

"Well, he's here, ain't he?" And he is, though Calla can't understand why. She's never actually talked to the kid, never touched him, but she doesn't have to. He's a decayed thing that shouldn't be able to speak but is speaking anyway. Orla can't read minds, and her brand of psychic works best on the phone, but she obviously knows Calla well enough to know that Calla got her point, and she looks smug about it.

Calla needs to stop spending time with her.

Orla sits back in her chair and sips her noxious tea. It's clear she thinks she's won this argument. Calla takes her hair down from its ponytail and sighs. For now, at least, Orla's won. "You still got that girl's phone number?"

* * *

Adam is bent over an engine, and he doesn't know that Noah's here. He's been at Boyd's all day, putting in extra hours. It's his only job today. If Adam wanted he could be out with Gansey and Ronan-not Blue, though. Noah's pretty sure that Blue's at Nino's today. He drums his fingers on the workbench he's sat on, focusing.

Yes, she's at Nino's, currently refilling someone's sweet tea.

Across the room, Adam grunts and pulls away from the engine, shaking his hand. Noah can't tell what he did from over here. Adam wipes his hands on his handkerchief, trying and failing to wipe the grease from his fingers.

To get his attention, Noah knocks a screwdriver off the bench. It clatters to the floor, and Adam looks up, startled, a deer in the headlights, or one of those wide-eyed kids in antique photographs. When he sees Noah, he visibly calms down and sighs. "Noah," he says, relief and something else in his voice.

Noah waits. When Adam doesn't say anything else, just looks at him, he hops off the bench. "Didn't mean to scare you." He says, smiling at him. Adam still doesn't speak and raises an eyebrow. There's a quirk to his mouth that's both exasperated and fond. It's a lot like the look Gansey sometimes gives Ronan when he's not looking, or the look Ronan gives Chainsaw or Matthew when they are looking. "Okay, yes I did."

Adam's smile grows wide. He wipes his hands on the cloth again. "What're you doing?"

"Watching."

Adam snorts. It's obvious that he doesn't think that's a good response. Unfortunately for him, it's the only one Noah has.

Adam waits for a moment longer, then turns on the radio and goes back to his engine.

Noah's always been in awe of Adam's ability to focus on something. If there's something he needs to do, Adam's going to do it; working three jobs? Adam gives his focus to each one while he's working. Homework? He'll sit down in his crummy apartment and read through his US History textbook and get those notes done in an hour. Cabeswater calling? He scrys for that, to try to figure out what it wants, while leaves unfurl against his cheek. Or he'll use tarots to interpret Cabeswater's needs. The way his lips purse and his brow wrinkles is always fascinating.

Noah prefers to watch Adam like this, though. Working at Boyd's with washcloth through one of his belt loops, fingers stained with grease or oil, bathed in yellow artificial light. Oldies playing on the radio, a quiet hum; and Cabeswater just a smidge farther away than usual.

He looks more alive, like this. In the sun he's washed out, a little less substantial. The only other time he sees him at his liveliest is when Adam's communicating with Cabeswater. Then, his eyes are electric instead of faded; the air around his gets heavy and humid, like a grove of trees right after a rainstorm. The colors that make up Adam are more saturated, the blonde of his hair less dusty and more like sunshine. His skin looks gold.

Magic, Noah thinks, is what Adam was born to do. Born to be with, near, and apart of. Magic suits him.

* * *

Despite what her recent Google search history might lead you to believe, Adele Czerny is not a _witch_ or a _devil worshipper_. Adele Czerny is just trying to resurrect her ghost brother. It's all perfectly innocent, really. Not like she's trying to build an army of zombies to take over the world or something.

Of course, Adele can't exactly tell her nosy mother about any of the things she's realized in the past months. Chiefly, that her dead son's soul is trapped in limbo or something and still exists on their mortal plain. So, when she gets home from a shopping trip and is faced with what's probably her search history from the last week at least, there's not much she can say

Thankfully, Mom decided _not_ to involve her husband. Michael Czerny, despite not having been to a single Sunday service in over a decade, is surprisingly religious and might escalate the situation. Considering the fact that Wanda Czerny, mother of three and likely one of the least unflappable people to exist, _ever_, has printed out Adele's search history, he would _definitely_ not be a good addition to the conversation that's about to happen.

Adele sighs and sets her bags down. Wanda Czerny stares at her, eyes narrowed, hair pulled up into a sleek ponytail that emphasizes her pointy eyebrows. This is _not_ going to be fun.

Wanda is sitting at the head of the table, arms crossed over her chest. In front of her are stacks of papers; on the top Adele can see the Google logo. Knowing her mother, Wanda's probably gone to each of these websites and printed out their homepages.

They stare at each other for a solid minute in silence. Birds chirp their songs outside, accompanied by the wind. The clock behind Wanda ticks away the seconds. Finally, Wanda closes her eyes and pinches her nose. "What," she says, slow, measured, "is this?" She gestures with her other hand at the papers in front of her

"A gross invasion of privacy?" Adele asks, mimicking her mother's earlier posture, arms crossed./

"Don't take that tone with me," Wanda says, opening her eyes and narrowing them at her. It's a lot like the way she used to talk to Noah when he got another speeding ticket. Adele feels a rush of pride, electricity in her veins. "I want answers. _Now_."

Adele sighs and closes her eyes. "It's just stuff for a story, Mom."

Wanda's thin lips are pursed when Adele opens her eyes again. "A story." She repeats, voice thick with disbelief.

"Yeah," Adele says it slow like she's talking to one of her less intelligent classmates. "Like, an article? For the campus paper?" There is no campus paper, but Wanda isn't involved enough to know that. And Adele rarely lies to her mother, so if she's lucky, Wanda can't tell what Adele looks like when she lies.

Wanda blinks, like a deer in the headlights. Adele watches her, barely breathing. After a moment, her mother slumps in her chair, all her self-righteousness gone. She looks like every one of her years has been a weight on her shoulders, and finally, they've been lifted off her shoulders. "I didn't mean to worry you," Adele adds, taking a step closer, reaching toward her from across the table.

Wanda sighs and shakes her head. Adele's hands drop to her sides. "I'll… Shred this before your father gets home." She says, gesturing to her stacks of papers.

"Thanks." Adele stays standing there for another moment. Then she takes her bags and heads upstairs. Once inside her room, she locks the door.

Adele has a lot of thinking to do, among other things. She doesn't want to be interrupted.

* * *

The Dog is no longer allowed to sleep in Noah's room. This wasn't decided by Noah; instead, it was Malory's decision, because the Dog had marked his territory all over the room, and Malory _did_ _not want_ to sleep in a room smelling of piss.

So the Dog has been exiled to the main room, just as Noah has been. So it's just Noah and the Dog and Gansey, who's finally sleeping at a somewhat normal time, thanks to his secret phone calls with his secret girlfriend. The good news is that the Dog isn't peeing in Noah's room anymore, and it takes less time to take him outside if he really does have to pee.

The downside is that the Dog is a couch hog.

It just lays there, taking up the entirety of the couch, instead of all the other places it could lay. It's not really sleeping, just existing. The Dog could do that in Gansey's scale-model Henrietta, on Main Street, or under Gansey's desk, or among the piles of books and Sports Illustrated issues and Coke cans. The Dog could lounge underneath the pool table.

But no. The Dog is inconsiderate, and it doesn't give a shit if Noah's ghostly ass is sore from sitting on the floor. Instead of the Dog, it's Noah who lays among the magazines and books and garbage that sits near Gansey's desk.

He should start a civil rights movement for ghosts, and other undead beings. He could come up with a catchy name and a cool logo and elevate the social status of ghosts everywhere. At least, in the US. Make forcing someone to lay on the ground just because they're dead illegal. The Dog looks at him lazily. It's like a challenge. Noah scrutinizes it, thin lips pursed. Gansey snores quietly in his bed, oblivious to the injustice Noah is facing at the hands-paws?-of the Dog.

Noah looks at the ceiling. He can't even see it, it's so dark. Above him, all there is, is blackness. It feels fitting.

"Panting mingles in with Gansey's snores. Feet patter against the floor, nails scraping. The Dog flops down on Noah's chest and licks at his chin. Noah pets its head and closes his eyes.


	4. Strings (To Hold Me Down)

Matthew knows, objectively, that Ronan has a drinking problem. He knows, objectively, that Declan might end up addicted to that prescription-grade ibuprofen he's been taking for his headaches. He knows that maybe he shouldn't be as trusting as he is. Matthew _knows_, alright? Plenty of people have told him. And anyway, it's not like he's a _complete _idiot. He knows lots of things, thank you very much. He knows the Pythagorean theorem, and how to play niche Irish instruments, and that his father didn't love Declan as much as he should've, and that's part of the reason Declan and Ronan clash so much. The most loved and the least, always butting heads.

Other things Matthew knows, objectively:

One of Ronan's friends is a ghost.

His mother, Aurora Lynch, lives in a magical forest that could disappear at any time, really.

Aurora is a dream, actually, pulled right from Niall Lynch's head.

So were most things at the Barnes, from the cows to the toaster.

Ronan can dream things to life too.

Ronan dreamed his pet raven to life.

This last one isn't so certain, but Matthew has this gut feeling about it, so it's going on this list too

Matthew Lynch is a dream, just like his mother. Only he's from _Ronan's_ head, not Niall's.

Don't ask him how he knows. He just… _knows_, alright? It would explain most things, honestly.

Actually, scratch that - it just makes everything more confusing. How can a dream grow? How can it age? Is a dream person even a real person? Can their personality ever develop, or are they stuck with what they were given in that dream?

Are any of Matthew's emotions real? Is anything, anything at all, about Matthew Lynch, third son of Niall and Aurora Lynch, the product of a three-year-old Ronan Lynch's imagination, _real?_

His brothers don't know that he knows. Matthew isn't sure how _he _knows. It's part overheard conversation, part deep dark insecurity, part existential crisis. (Matthew knows what _that _is, too. Suck it, Richmond, he's not a dunce.) He almost wishes he didn't know so that he could go on being happy-go-lucky Matty Lynch, carefree with the sun bouncing off his curls.

He probably wouldn't be able to be that version of himself anyway. Not after the Fourth of July.

Matthew shudders, leaning heavily against his headboard. In the next bed over, his roommate, Richmond, snores. Matthew considers buying him one of those pillows that make you stop snoring, or maybe buying earplugs. When he doesn't get enough sleep, he gets all self-reflective and morose. (He had to look up that word in the dictionary when he first heard it. Richmond still hasn't let that go.)

Matthew looks at his cellphone and aches; for his father, for the Barns, for his early childhood. He snatches it off the bedside table and dials a number.

One of the good things about being Ronan's dream is that he always picks up Matthew's calls. He always makes time for Matthew, in between being grumpy and following around Dick Gansey and Adam Parrish and muttering things to Chainsaw while stroking her feathers. It's nice.

"Yeah?" Ronan asks instead of greeting him. He's never been one for the niceties. Ronan is probably drunk. "Chainsaw, say hi!" He says, though it's muffled; he probably covered the phone with his hand. Chainsaw caws her greeting.

"Hey, Ronan," Matthew says, quietly. Over the phone, he can hear Ronan's electronica loud and clear. Even if it's not his type of music, Matthew can appreciate the beat of it. It's the kind of stuff you might hear at a rave or something.

"What're you doin' awake?" Ronan asks, and yeah, he's _definitely _a little buzzed.

"Can't sleep. What about you?"

"Me neither." There's rustling, fabric moving against fabric. "Do you need something?"

Matthew shakes his head, even though Ronan can't see him. "I just wanted to talk to you. See what you were doing."

"You wanted to talk. At three in the morning." He can imagine Ronan's face right now, one eyebrow arched, a curl to his lip. For anyone else, even Gansey, there'd be something cruel to it. It's never that way, with Matthew.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Matthew shrugs. "I don't know," he replies, bringing one of his knees up to his chest. "I figured you'd be awake, is all, and I never see you at school, so…"

Ronan makes a noise and his bed creaks. Maybe he was laying down? "I get it, Matthew."

"You do?"

"Yeah." Why does it surprise him when Ronan understands him? They're brothers, but closer than that. Ronan's the only reason he exists.

Why does that thought make him want to puke? Maybe it's because he wants to be something more, like some spark of ambition is steadily setting him on fire now that he knows almost for certain that he's a dream. Now he wants to do something big with himself, wants to be somebody. Maybe it's the adolescent desire to prove himself, whatever way he can. Maybe. Maybe.

Maybe Matthew just wants to be a real boy instead of a wooden puppet, hand-crafted with a smile painted red on his wooden face.

"Matt?" Ronan asks, and Matthew snaps out of it. He doesn't know how much time he's lost. "You alright?"

Matthew sighs. "Yeah. Sorry. Just... Tired."

"Mm. Tired.

"Yeah."

"Lay down, Matt." Ronan's voice is soft, more a butter knife than a razor blade. It's the voice that talked Declan into poking a bee's nest. A voice that reminds him a little bit of Gansey. Matthew obeys it and crawls under his covers. Ronan waits until Matthew's head is on the pillow before he speaks again.

"Now close your eyes." Again, Matthew does as told. His eyelids are heavy, anyway. He can't keep them up very long. Ronan is quiet for a long time afterward, and Matthew forces himself to stay awake at least until he speaks again.

"Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do," Ronan says, and Matthew smiles. He hasn't heard Ronan getting up to get the book; he must have it by the bed. Given the state of Ronan's room at Monmouth Manufacturing, that wouldn't surprise him. "Once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it…"

Like this, Matthew drifts off to sleep, letting Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and his brother's voice soothe his heart.

Hours later, Richmond, predictably, is lecturing him. He lost track of whatever he's blabbering about twenty minutes ago when all of it started. He'd been red in the face-more than usual, anyway, which is an achievement-and holding a towel. Matthew's towel, apparently, but it wasn't, because Matthew never leaves things on the ground that weren't supposed to be on the ground. Matthew is tidy, tidy to the extreme.

Of course, pointing out that fact didn't help the situation. Nothing can stop Richmond once he gets going. Now he's more purple than red, kind of like a beet. He's saying something about how cleanliness is a sign of intelligence, and of "proper breeding", whatever _that_ means. Matthew's at his desk, trying valiantly to get through his Geometry work, but Richmond's shouting into his ear and they're going to get noise complaints and then Matthew's going to get kicked out because he's not a top student like _fucking __Richmond_. And then he'll die poor under a bridge.

"Could you shut up?"

That stops him, finally. Matthew looks over his shoulder at him; Richmond's face is white. "Excuse me?"

"I said," Matthew makes his voice slow for this, drawn-out, and turns around fully. "Could you _shut up?_" Richmond is gaping like a fish, and it's hilarious. Matthew kind of understands it; after all, he's never been a confrontational sort of guy. He prefers to let his brothers do the fighting, so he can step in and make everything better.

Now, though? Now, he's feeling less Aurora and more Niall, which basically means that he wants to punch his _stupid_ roommate in his _stupid_, cherry-colored face. He wants to prove that most of him is muscle, that his stockiness isn't just the baby fat of childhood that still clings to his cheekbones.

He stands up. Richmond backs up, stumbling over his own feet. It feels electric, in a way nothing else ever has. It feels like danger. His blood thrums with it.

"I-I can't believe you'd speak to me that way." Richmond blusters, and Matthew almost laughs, because he's got that prideful glint in his eye again instead of the shock of a few seconds ago. "Telling _me _to shut up! I'm the richest kid at this school! My father donated one hundred thousand dollars last year _alone!_ I _know_ people. I could get you _and_ your fuck-up brother out of this school with a snap of my fingers," Richmond sneers, showing off his braces. The rubber bands are green.

That's the last straw, really. But he's not like his brothers, flying into explosive fury-no. Matthew's always been slower. A lion on the hunt, his wrestling coach says. Finally, Matthew sort of understands what he meant. He takes a step forward. Richmond looks at the door. He's no track star, but the guy _is_ fast, lightweight and built for movement. Unfortunately for him, Matthew hates being alone, so he does a sport every season. One of Matthew's sports is track.

Matthew takes another step toward him. Richmond bolts.

He lets him go and doesn't move until long after the door has swung shut. That's another way he's different from his brothers. He's _patient_. He sits down at his desk, does his math, and plans.

Three hours later, Richmond comes back, something steely in his eyes. Matthew, who's just gotten out of the shower, smiles. "Hey," he says, and waves. "I just forgot my clothes out here. I'll change, and then the bathroom's all yours."

Richmond stares at him like he's lost his mind. Steel turns to liquid confusion. He blinks, twice. Matthew pays him no attention, gathering up his pajamas and breezing by him. Richmond watches him go, gaping at him like a fish out of water. _Glub glub glub, Matt must have hit his head in the tub, because he's gone batshit._

Matthew kind of likes the way his calm makes Richmond squirm. It's-and here's a word Richmond would appreciate-_vindicating_. He smiles, pulling his t-shirt over his head, shucking on his pajama bottoms. When he looks at himself in the mirror, he sees gold curls turned to bronze, tan skin and pink chinks. But most of all, Matthew sees his mouth, spread in a grin as sharp as a knife. His blood runs cold.

* * *

Noah watches the bright blue water from the lifeguard's towering chair. In his ears, late-nineties punk rock reverberates; he's taken Ronan's shitty old earbuds and one of Gansey's phones. Memories flash by while he sits there; Whelk in a Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned, exposing his pale throat and torso, and navy swimming trunks; sneaking his girlfriend out in the middle of the night for a picnic by the pool, to watch the stars-she's got a bikini on and a sundress, and that's it, even though it's barely spring. More Whelk, but also the swim team. Noah had been the fastest, lithe as he was. His long arms had given him quite a good reach, even if he wasn't the tallest of the tall.

There's a splash. Noah looks toward the deep end, and sees Matthew Lynch, floating in his boxers.

He glances at the phone in his hand, warm against the death-cold of his skin, and then back at Matthew. Would Ronan even answer this number? Would he recognize it? Noah had found this phone in the very, very back of Gansey's desk, hidden by papers and notebooks and chewed on, dry pens. He'd squeaked when the phone still had service, so loudly it had briefly interrupted Malory's snoring and had gotten the Dog to raise its old, droopy eyelids to give him an old, droopy glare. Noah had felt, just by touching it, that Gansey hadn't used it in years. That was why he'd allowed himself to take it.

Still. It _had _been Gansey's phone… Noah opens up the contact app. While he's scrolling through the many, many contacts-how Gansey manages to know so many people and not completely lose his mind astounds him on a daily basis, but especially now-he realizes something:

Matthew Lynch is staring at him.

Not maliciously, of course. As far as Noah knows, the youngest Lynch has no malicious bone in his body. And why would he? He's the perfect little brother, Ronan's ideal. Three-year-old Ronan wouldn't want a carbon copy of himself as a younger brother. Still, the intensity with which Matthew gazes at him is, as most things Noah's encountered since his death, unnerving. It's how Declan looks at Gansey, how Gansey looks at the world, how the world looks at Blue. Like Noah is a curiosity, an oddity, something to be explored and analyzed and investigated, something weird, something that shouldn't be but is. It isn't the kind of expression he likes to see aimed at him, but that's not what's unnerving. What's making Noah fidget is that it's _Matthew Lynch_ who is looking at him this way.

They look at each other like this for what feels like hours. It feels like he can't turn away, even if he wanted to, like Matthew is the sun and Noah is just a little planet with the misfortune of being tidally locked. It isn't until the sky turns more navy than black that Matthew looks away from him; he pulls himself up and out of the pool, then sits on the side, kicking his feet in the water. He watches for a while, watches the ripples his feet create, like Apollo watching his sister push and pull the ocean from on high, a small, silly smile that feels _much _more Matthew.

Finally, the youngest Lynch leaves, leaving wet footprints that will be dry and gone by the time someone comes to actually open the pool. The surface of the water still ripples, half an hour after Matthew and his bouncy curls are at rest in his dorm room. Matthew is made of magic, born from it, woven out of its fibers. Fifteen years ago, Ronan had taken him by the hand and pulled him out of his own head in the form of a newborn; Noah has always imagined that to be when Ronan's mindscape got a tiny bit darker, the little sun that had kept the plants alive and the animals warm having disappeared from it forever. For Noah, and for everyone else who knows just what Matthew is and where he came from, that's all he ever saw him as. An imaginary friend brought to life in all its one-dimensional glory.

Noah thinks that might have been true in the beginning. Up until recently, it might have been true. But in his death, he's come to know that the things that make him up now are only half the world people like his mother and sister and Declan Lynch, the most mundane of the Lynches, live in. The other half is something more, something like Cabeswater and magic and beyond all that.

While Noah listens to that voice and its whisperings, something in his gut twitches; thirty miles away, in the suburbs, his sister has opened her eyes.

* * *

Adele doesn't check the caller ID when she answers the phone. No one she's close with would ever call her at-she looks at her alarm clock-six o'clock in the morning, three hours before she has to wake up for her classes. None of her friends have the gravelly, roaring sort of voice the woman who speaks once Adele has her ear to the phone does, anyway, which leaves her with only one option. The women of 300 Fox Way have called her.

"About time," Calla says. "You should've answered on the first ring, girl. I just lost a twenty to Orla, damn it." Despite the petrifying nature of this woman's tone, she doesn't actually sound angry or even annoyed. If anything, Adele thinks, she sounds worried. "Where are you?"

"In bed. Why?"

"She says she's in bed. Why is she-why the hell do you _think_ she's in bed? She's a god damned college student, that's why. No. No. I said _no_, Persephone! She won't be able to hear you even if you scream into the phone!"

There's a scuffle and a bang, and by the time someone is speaking to her again, Adele is downstairs making coffee. When someone does, it isn't the tiny voice she expects. "You still there?" Asks a bubbly, seductive voice. Adele smiles.

"Orla."

"The one and only."

Adele dumps two big lumps of sugar in with a tablespoon. "So what is it you wanted?"

"What is it we-what do you _think _we wanted?" Orla asks, accusatory. "Is it too early in the morning for your brain to function?"

Adele snorts. "Yes. So, please, explain."

"We came up with a plan, _obviously_."

"A plan." Adele turns it over in her head, over and over, these two words. They sound dangerous with the hope they instill her with. It's a long time until Adele speaks, and over the din in her mind where ideas bounce off the interior of her skull, she can hear Orla's nails tap tap tapping in impatience. She can feel her shifting her weight back and forth, and she can hear Calla's violent pacing. And here, in her home, Adele can hear her mother awakening upstairs. "Tell me," she says, little more than a whisper

And Orla tells her, in that long-winded, sugar-sweet, honey dripping way of hers. Then Calla takes her hand at it, and she explains it the way a lion rips into a gazelle after days without a successful hunt; ravenously, mercilessly. And finally, Persephone gets her turn to spin this plan of theirs into words understandable to someone like Adele, someone without whatever the three of them have that lets them be what they are. She does it slowly, explaining anything Adele needs explained, and she does it in that soft, tiny voice of hers. All the while, Adele sits at her bedroom desk, until her coffee is gone and her stomach has warmed with it, until her heart is aching, trapped in despair and hope and everything they bring. They strangle her like English ivy strangles a tree.

When Persephone is done-and it takes a while-Adele is fully dressed and sliding into a pair of heels. "Have you eaten?"

"We could eat," she says, her voice rough from all the use it's gotten.

"Great. I'll treat you. We should discuss this further."

"We should," Persephone agrees daintily. Adele can see her in that lumpy armchair, thin, pale legs crossed, her free hand resting in her lap. There's a pause, but it doesn't feel like she's waiting for Adele to speak again; no, it's like she's seeing something. "Oh, that's fancy. We'll have to dress up.

"I'll see you there, then." Adele ends the call abruptly, waves at her mother as she passes her on the stairs, and heads out to her car. Her blood thrums in time with the engine as she pulls out of the driveway, an old CD blaring from her speakers.


End file.
